


Everlasting Rain

by Elinie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-30 00:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13938927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elinie/pseuds/Elinie
Summary: It was raining in London. Irene and Sherlock were remembering each other and different moments they shared. Would he dare to come and see her?English is not my mother tongue, so feel free to correct my mistakes.





	Everlasting Rain

It was raining again in the eternal city. A fine autumn rain mixed with droplets of smog suspensions, with dust, with the smell of leaves and ... longing. Yearning for something that was not destined to come true. Silly sentiments! But it was raining, lightning was flashing, large gray drops dripping from the window, and memories appeared in mind out of the blue. Memories about something that should be dissolved in millions of other people's lives and hundreds of other people’s faces. But the rain did not ask permission for nostalgia. It was just raining.  
The man walked away from the table, pushed the microscope aside irritatingly and sank into the armchair. Work stalled. The rain distracted, confused him. The phone on the table remained speechless. A thunder storm rang out in the distance, which meant impossible to get rid of unwanted thoughts.  
The woman tied her thick brown hair with a colorful ribbon, wrapped herself in a robe and eased herself into an easy chair. It was raining. And she remembered. A sad smile touched her lips, summed with cherry lipstick. The woman crossed her legs and shook her head: what was she getting into again? But it was raining. The phone was speechless.  
The woman gave a long and attentive look at the gray reflections behind the window, and dreamily closed her eyes, remembering. Who would have thought that this proud and calculating cynic would be ... no, not sentimental. So what was Sherlock? Irene pursed her lips: she wasn’t able to understand. She knew Sherlock too well to draw conclusions, and too often lost to herself, making mistakes in the calculations. With him nothing could be foreseen, which made their game even more seductive. And even more dangerous.  
In his inner eyes Sherlock saw Irene kneeling in front of him. At that moment in Karachi, his vaunted calculation nearly failed because of the fear for this woman. She was strong and proud. Independent and heartless, at that moment she broke something in him, mixing all the cards. She became broken, subordinated, forced to play by someone else’s rules. As much as she did not want, the danger made of her just an ordinary woman. The one who needed protection. Could he dare to refuse? Her hair smelled of rain and hot sand of the desert, and her eyes told him everything what she had not even tried to hide. "Good-bye, Mr. Holmes"  
Sentiments! Let it be so. And the gesture of a noble knight in shining armor was nothing more than a tribute to his own love for cheap drama. But afterwards, when she was whispering something to him in one of the rooms of a lost motel on the outskirts of Pakistan, and when she was secretly hiding her tears at the airliner's gangway, he, a cold and calculating cynic, realized that he, after all, had been having a heart. And his heart sank heavily when the plane took her far, far away. Into another life.  
Irene brushed away her unwanted tears. Rain. It was raining again. "Will we see each other again?" "May be. When it rains"  
When the headlines screamed about the suicide of a brilliant detective, Irene's first thought was not to believe. Then again and again. Transmissions, headlines, random phrases. She thought that she was going crazy. Writing messages and calling seemed to be pure folly. Irene was running around her apartment, overturning things and frantically looking for some sort of clue. At least something. People like Sherlock just could not die. It just couldn’t be! She was writing messages into the void, desperately hoping that, for at least a second ... In every tall black-haired the woman had been seeing him.  
It had been raining that night. Electricity went away, and Irene lit candles, succumbing to a sentimental impulse. She watched the bad weather decorating the already tarnished world in gray tones and remembered how his gray eyes looked at her appraisingly. That night, at the motel, where danger and rapture mingled together, at a night filled with the scents of rain and spices, Irene wasn’t playing that time. All masks were away. There existed only him, a slightly mocking smile, frozen in the corner of his lips, and a whirlpool of love that seized them up to the hilt. This was the whole point: only in each other's arms they could be themselves. Well, the choice of masks is always part of the mosaic of a self-portrait. Only with him could she be that woman. His woman. And then they parted, and she naively asked if they would meet again. Though she was completely aware that with their way of life it was a total madness asking such questions. But did they at least once have common sense? Sherlock hugged her goodbye: "Next time. When it rains"  
And now she was no longer holding back her tears, and the flame of the fireplace, the open fire that she always loved so much, did not fulfill its soothing role anymore. One person was able to protect her and calm her. The woman, who made all the powerful forces of this world kneel in front of her eyes, the woman not grazing to anyone and anything, was sitting now, shivering, in a huge armchair. For the first time she was scared of the thunderstorm. A sudden knock at the door. A crystal glass fall on the floor. Red wine leaved a bloody patch on the light carpet. Irene opened the door, and a cry shrieked from her lips. He looked depressed, broken, desperate and immensely lonely. They were two lost souls in a vast world that no one else could understand.

"You have come"  
"Yes, it started to rain"

Here and now Irene nervously pulled the phone closer, cursing herself, her weakness and the thunder. Fictional life gave her a million different possibilities, but she desperately wanted to be herself, without a mask. She longed to see him. Because of him she had crossed three time zones and had flown millions of miles. And now she was sitting in the hotel room and wasn’t daring to write a single message. One night was so not enough and so immensely plentiful for people like them. Uncovered by no one, but too well unraveled by each other. A knock at the door. An enthusiastic sigh. A sense of security in his arms.  
\- You’ve come.  
\- Yes, for it started to rain.

End.


End file.
